


Happenstance

by Lucterna



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: F/M, M/M, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:16:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucterna/pseuds/Lucterna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes everything falls into place just so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 001: Happenstance

You know this is wrong. If you'd just moved along five seconds ago, it would have been an accident – Nate didn't know you were coming back home, he'd left his bedroom door open. He thought you were out with your boyfriend, so he'd invited his back to the apartment the two of you shared. So, that you are standing there, not ten feet from the door, watching him suck off the guy he's been dating for almost a year, is wrong. Nate doesn't know. The two of you minimally share this part of your lives. Brad Colbert is watching you, watching him, get a blowjob from your best friend.

If not for walking in on your skeezy, now ex, boyfriend in much the same position only half an hour ago, you would not be trapped here, eyes locked on Brad's. His are blue, pupils blown out and as you watch, his breath hitches in his chest, and the soft sound of Nate's muffled moan reaches your ears.

You know Nate has his eyes closed. That's why he hasn't noticed anything's amiss. The two of you have been best friends since fourth grade and he always closes his eyes, starting with the time you asked him to kiss you because you wanted to know what it was like before you did it with a boy you liked. He'd shut those green, green eyes and puckered up and you can remember it like it was yesterday. But Brad doesn't close his eyes, doesn't let you go, and you can't fathom why he doesn't or why you don't simply tear yourself away. You just broke up with your boyfriend, the next logical step is booze or crying yourself to sleep until you can tell Nate about it in the morning and he'll rub your shoulder, kiss your forehead and tell you it's all okay. He wasn't good enough for you. You'll find someone else.

You're not in love with Nate, but sometimes you imagine he's given you this terrible disadvantage at dating. Every guy ever has to be as perfect as Nate. Most of them don't even cut it close. Not even Brad, but if he makes Nate happy then you're okay with that.

You're jolted when Brad blinks, head tipping violently back as he comes. Gaze broken, you're suddenly more than aware of them both, eyes slipping down Brad's heaving chest to the back of Nate's dirty-blond head moving between the larger man's thighs. You know you need to get out of there now, but your feet are still rooted to the spot, your stomach in tight knots as a sudden, unexpected heat rushes along your skin. It's not like you've never walked in on Nate before, or seen him kissing, touching another guy, but this is definitely the first time this has ever happened. You can feel your lips parted, almost gaping, as Brad gasps your best friend's name, fists his hand in that head of hair to hold him still until he's finished. When Nate comes up for air, his throaty, rasping chuckle tugs a fierce shudder up your spine and you squeeze your eyes shut, wish you hadn't when you hear Brad's voice next.

“We've got an audience.”

Only then do your feet seem to cooperate with your brain's frantic commands. Still, you make it only two steps before Nate's calling your name, voice low and catching. Shuddering again and stuttering to a stop, you don't dare turn around. Your body is suddenly feverish and aching; you don't have to see your face to know it's a lurid shade of red. You start to call out, to tell him, “I'm sorry! I didn't mean to see-”

His hand on your shoulder stops you and you wonder very frantically at the way your skin seems to spark as he touches it. “Hey, hey, it's okay.”

Against your better judgement, you look up at him. Nate's cheeks are flushed, patchy, his lips swollen and dark. You're pretty sure there's no other shade of green in the world quite like his eyes right now. It is so not okay.

“I didn't mean-” you start to protest again, not sure why you want him to be mad, but then he's pressing a finger to your lips, successfully shushing you. You swallow hard and try not to think about what he could have been doing with that finger otherwise, wince when you realize you kind of want to know, and wonder if he'd tell you if you asked.

“I said it's okay,” he repeats, in that way only Nate Fick can. Firm, commanding, but somehow careful too.

You nod dumbly, arms hanging limp at your sides, your stomach still a mess of quivering, heated coils that you're pretty sure you're going to have to stifle with cold water the moment Nate lets you go.

Only, he doesn't. His finger rests there against your lips for longer than necessary and then it's tracing gently down, hooking under your chin and tipping it so your eyes can meet only his or stare at the ceiling. You tremble. He says, “You're not supposed to be home.” It's a question, but not, and you don't even have to explain. It's like he absorbs what you'd otherwise tell him straight through your eyes or maybe the electric place where his finger still touches your chin. “I'll kill him.”

Weakly, you protest, “It's okay.”

There's the rustle of fabric nearby, the pad of feet and suddenly Brad is looming over you both. Nate's head automatically tips up, and the two share a look. All right, maybe you'll have to give Brad kudos sometime about the fact that he's the only other person in the world who can communicate with Nate like that, but for now it just leaves you shivering, almost gives you enough courage to pull away.

“It's not okay,” he says, startling you back into looking up at the two of them.

Nate has let your chin down, but his hand hadn't strayed far, fingers closing gently around your upper arm. Another look between the two of them, another moment of silence and Nate's grasp tightens, pulls you in closer to the two men. Brad is huge and warm at your side, you put a hand up almost as if to stop him and get a good handful of his lean, muscular abs for your efforts. You gulp. Brad grins and Nate lets out a soft sigh.

“What my boyfriend's trying to say is,” Nate explains, drawing your befuddled, heated attention his way again, “if it's any consolation, we'd like to invite you to bed with us.”

You sputter, think for a moment you've actually fallen and hit your head on something. “I... I thought-”

Brad cuts you off, “While this team is preferable to the other, we like to bat for it every so often. Plus, you're the only girl I haven't met on the internet that enjoys the show.”

“I didn't-”

Nate leans in, just close enough to bump his nose affectionately against yours. “We know.”

With that, they draw you into the bedroom.

You hesitate at the foot of the bed long enough that Brad teases, “You've done something like this before, right?”

You flush and Nate shoves him so that Brad is only left grinning at you. “Not... not exactly,” you explain unnecessarily to both of them.

Nate has already shed his shirt and Brad had lost the jeans somewhere between the hallway and the bedroom. You're the only one wearing more than a couple stitches of clothing. Unwilling to wait any longer, your green eyed friend stalks the length of the bed toward you on his knees, tugs you so you've got not choice but to pitch forward, and catch yourself before you fall right on top of him.

“You're thinking too much,” Nate scolds gently, and his mouth finds yours. He shuts his eyes. It's perfect. You don't have to think about winding your arms around his neck, letting him draw you close.

It's still something of a surprise when his fingers slip up under your shirt. Admittedly, you'd fantasized about it a time or two, but never had you dreamed of something like this. Knowing that Brad is watching less than a foot away, close enough he could reach out and touch either one of you, only serves to heighten that ache between your thighs. Nate stops kissing you to tug the shirt over your head, playfully tosses it over his shoulder at Brad, then touches his lips to your jaw, dragging kisses up to your ear where he whispers, “Sometimes I think about you.”

You jerk, eyes meeting his, and they are huge and green, unapologetic.

You don't have to answer him, you just kiss him again, mouths melding in a way that has Brad groaning, and when you spare him a glance, he's got his hands down his shorts, slowly stroking himself back to life. You watch, strangely fascinated, because you'd never really cared to see any of your boyfriends doing something like that. Moments later your attention's splintered by Nate getting a handful of your breast, hand sliding right into pale, lacy fabric. His palm is hot against your skin and you gasp as he squeezes, kneads, runs his fingertips over an already hardening nipple before he spills the soft flesh over the bra's cup and closes that perfect mouth over the tip of it.

It doesn't take long for the rest of the clothing to melt between the three of you, although you're left in that bra, spilling out the top, with an already darkening mark from where Brad had joined in. It matches the set of teeth marks on Nate's shoulder, which your face is currently buried in, breath coming in hot little pants as his fingers tunnel between your legs, seeking out the moist, clenching center of you. His back is pressed to Brad's chest, and you can feel the latter's hand moving between the two of you, brushing the jumping muscles in your abdomen as he strokes Nate's swollen erection. If you open your eyes you can see it, slick with fluid, gliding between Brad's huge fingers. Nate is panting into your hair, his free hand digging hard into Brad's thigh.

Although you're moving toward that pinnacle with the three fingers Nate has buried in you, his thumb brushing the sensitive nub above them and sending sporadic jolts up through your belly, he's obviously a little closer than you are. Brad doesn't finish him though and you know the moment he stops jerking Nate by the sound the latter makes in your ear, a desperate, disappointed sound. You're already going for him with one shaky hand when Brad nudges your head up from Nate's shoulder, kisses you hard on the mouth and then offers you the fingers he'd just had wrapped around Nate.

You can't even be embarrassed, sucking two of the digits into your mouth, shuddering hard and bucking against Nate's hand as you realize what you're doing. At the same time, you've picked up where Brad left off, although you're a tad more distracted than the blond had been. Nate is slippery and hard in your hand, twitching with the effort to hold on that much longer, but it's Brad who stops you, stealing his fingers out of your suckling mouth. As if he'd given some sort of signal to the man between the two of you, Nate's twisting around, fingers slipping out of you. You whine, pressing closer against him, but as he twists around to tend to Brad, you stop to watch as they take turns wetting the weeping rod jutting up proudly from between his thighs.

You must make some sort of noise, because Nate's eyes dart back to you, then he's kissing you, cutting off your air to swipe your mouth thoroughly with his questing tongue. Using the hand damp from touching you, he guides yours to Brad, and you oblige. Wrapping your hand around the length of him, you explore tip to base, let your fingers slip lower to cup and knead more tender places. You don't stop until Brad groans, thrusting involuntarily into the action. You let go and there is a flurry of hazy movement, you're not sure what happens until Nate's head tips back, a rough cry peeling out of his throat. There's no mistaking the buck of hips underneath yours, the blurry vision of Brad buried to the hilt in Nate. You're pretty sure watching the two of them, the way Nate's throat works when he cries out again and the muscle cording in Brad's stomach as he thrusts upward, that neither would need to touch you to bring you to the brink.

But Nate does, somehow, and even you don't know where he gathers the faculties to do it, but he fists a hand in your hair, tugging it to bring your mouths together again. The other finds a good grasp on a hip and as Brad spears upward into him, he pulls you forward, bringing the three of you together in that one fluid motion. It's your turn to really cry out, arms wrapping around Nate's neck as he slides home, hitting places that his fingers had already grazed into oversensitivity. Although Nate's hand is still tangled in your hair, Brad does his own hair pulling, twisting Nate around to kiss him and you can't help but groan. You wonder how Nate must feel, pressed between the two of you. Somehow you and Brad have found this undulating rhythm, working Nate's body against each other's until he's practically writhing, begging, nipping your neck between soft and desperate pants.

He comes first, and it's the hot rush of him inside you, the spastic jerk of his hips and Brad only surging forward that much harder that takes you with him. Still locked together, tangled up in limbs you can't be sure if they belong to you or not, the two of you pant and plead and your body explodes at least once more before Brad is finished. He curls against Nate's back as the climax washes over him too, his forehead bumping yours on the smaller man's shoulder.


	2. my immaculate dream, made breath and skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is long overdue! But it's been written for some time, heh. Short, but hope you enjoy. And thanks to my sole reviewer, Laura, and the anon who left me kudos. Love~

You wake up tangled in limbs too long to be Nate's and wonder how Brad got to be wrapped around you. It's nice though, he makes you feel tiny and strangely safe, especially since Nate didn't have any trouble leaving you there. Quietly, you just enjoy it, the question of Nate's whereabouts already answered by the smell of breakfast wafting in from the kitchen. You can't help smiling. Carefully snuggling back against Brad's warm and pliant form, you shut your eyes again and figure you'll doze until Nate comes to get the two of you.

The man at your back has other plans.

You weren't aware he was awake, but the hand that had been resting idly on your stomach moments ago has begun to feel its way down. Sucking in a breath, your body tenses in anticipation, and the words, “Is this okay?” escape your lips.

As he circles your navel with a fingertip, Brad leans in, murmuring against your shoulder, “Unless you say it isn't.”

His breath on your skin makes you shiver and you relax as his fingers slip lower, combing through the soft curls at the apex of your thighs. He's careful, feeling you out, fingertips tracing just outside, then running a single digit up the center of you. Another breath and he's pressed very closely, your body curving easily with his, the muscles in his chest taut against your back. You can feel him stirring to life between the two of you, going hard at the small of your back and you swallow, experimentally shifting backward. Brad groans, stifling it in your shoulder as he hides his face there.

It doesn't prevent him from reaching his previous goal, however, and you let out a little noise as his fingers spread soft flesh and touch at the moist warmth beyond. You shudder, whimpering, and he teases even here, slipping along the sides, circling that bundle of nerves that wrings more pleasured sounds out of you. As you squirm against him, his lips touch down where the back of your neck meets your spine, kissing and then biting, though much gentler than the previous night. You bite your own lip, clawing momentarily at the pillow when he slips two of those fingers inside you. At least here he doesn't waste time exploring, already pumping them into you, rocking his hips against your back each time he slides them in as far as your body will allow.

He's unmistakably and – you suspect – painfully hard at your back now, the length of him rubbing along your skin. You reach back, intent on getting a hand around him, but he stops you with another nip at that spot on your neck. Before you can gather enough wits to figure out why he'd rather wet your back instead, he's slipped his fingers out of you as well and you whine at the clench of muscles around empty space. There's an amused puff of air against your neck. Brad's dampened hand travels the length of your thigh, grasping your leg at the knee and lifting it.

“Hold it up,” he commands, voice breathy at your ear.

You do as he says, but twist your head around to watch him, biting down on your bottom lip as he palms himself and shifts, aligning his body with yours so that he can rub the tip as teasingly along you as he had his fingers. You look away with a whimper and your leg trembles with the effort to hold it for him. “Brad...” you plead, fisting the pillow and rocking back against him.

Just as your leg begins to drop, Brad gives in, his sound of pleasure at sheathing himself completely inside you echoing your own. His hand catches your leg again, and before you can wonder at your own flexibility, he hooks it behind his own as he begins to thrust lazily, movements that won't pull him free of you.

His hand is huge against the side of your face as he tips it back to him again, thumb splitting your lips so he can kiss you open mouthed. Then it's traveling, cupping and kneading both breasts alternately, feeling out the soft curves as if he means to memorize them. You groan into his mouth, body torn between the sensations, wanting to press and arch into each. Once more his fingers dance down, joining him between your thighs, slipping past wet folds to roll that nub of nerves between his thumb and forefinger. A cry is torn from your throat and you're pretty sure you see stars as you come undone, body clamping down on his, milking him until his movements are no longer lazy, hips bucking against the curve of your backside with a few spastic motions until you're both spent.

The two of you lay there, tangled and panting, your leg still stretched over his and the muscles beginning to burn.

When you dare open your eyes, you're startled by the sight of Nate standing in the doorway, grinning strangely catlike down at the both of you.

“Think you'll be ready for a repeat performance after breakfast?”


	3. when we were young, stories were told that I would kiss you sweet like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You first meet Nathaniel Fick in the fourth grade. He later meets Brad Colbert in a bar.

You're used to being the “new kid.” For reasons you cannot yet fathom, your father uproots the family every so often, moving around the state as if he means to live in every part of it before you've finished school. The first few times, it was something like an adventure; you had no trouble getting along with other children and loved learning things so the new setting never really gave you pause. But when you began really making friends... Well, it was a problem. In the last school you'd left, you'd even had a best friend. The two of you ate lunch together every day, traded yogurt for pudding and pushed each other on the swings at recess. Twice you spent the night over at her house, huddling under the covers with her purple flashlight and giggling every time her parents told the two of you to get to sleep.

When throwing the hugest temper tantrum you could did not sway your parents from moving again, you decided that you wouldn't make any more friends. You're polite enough that new teachers like you and other kids might call you their friend if they don't notice your lack of interest in talking to or playing with them. 

At your new school, the lunchroom doubles as an auditorium, so you sit on the wooden steps that lead up to the stage alone to eat, unless the lady who supervises the cafeteria shoos you off to a table. She's let you be today, which is perfectly fine with you as you unload your Ninja Turtles lunchbox and lean against the step behind you.

Of course, secluding yourself in such a way, doesn't mean that no one notices you. And your classmates are still prone to doing dumb and sometimes mean things. Today, it's Joey Fisher, who lobs a crumpled up paper ball at you. It bounces off your forehead, startling you, and then lands in the cup of chocolate pudding you'd just opened up. Picking it out between thumb and index finger, you glare at him. Before you can stand to simply throw it away though, a pair of white sneakers appear in your peripheral vision and the pudding-covered paper is plucked from your hand.

You look up to find your classmate, Nathaniel – he preferred his entire first name back then – Fick, giving Joey a glare equally acidic to your own as he throws the messy ball right back at him.

Both of you are sent to the office.

You sit in the hard plastic chair, lips pursed and kicking your legs, as you wait for the principal to call the two of you back. “I can't believe you got us both in trouble.”

Nathaniel makes a face, but he doesn't seem all that worried about it. For a few seconds, he doesn't even answer you, and when he does, it's to say, “You shouldn't let them tease you.” 

You frown, legs going still. “What?”

“They tease you and you never say anything.” He looks over at you, and you think you don't like his expression so you scowl and look away.

“It doesn't matter,” you grumble petulantly and go back to kicking your legs. “Mom and Daddy won't keep me here long anyway.”

You can tell he's frowning at you, but he doesn't say anything else.

As it turns out, Nathaniel's pretty good at getting out of trouble. He has to rat out Joey in the process, which you know teachers and principals usually hate, but Mr. Kirkland seems to take in stride. He lets the both of you go with a pat on the head and a promise to talk to Joey about throwing things in the lunchroom. 

You decide that, if he really wants to, Nathaniel can be your friend.

A month later, your parents split up, your father moves out and your mother declares she's never moving again.

* * *

Nate feels incredibly stupid and he thinks if you were here that you would tell him that he is. Maybe that's part of the problem too, that you're not here. If you hadn't driven down south to see your parents for the weekend, Nate would be at home instead, and you would give him a beer, pet him and tell him it's okay. He's not good enough for Nate. Nate will find someone else. But, you're not here, and here is a little bar on the corner that he drives past every day on the way to the college campus. It's kind of cozy inside actually, once you get past the lingering haze of cigarette smoke on the air and four-fingered Freddy, who hangs out by the door, but doesn't get in enough trouble to get kicked out. 

He's sitting at a table by what might once have been a stage, but looks now like makeshift storage. The music, some bluesy classic rock, comes from speakers hidden somewhere above, attached to an old, glowing jukebox across the way. He'd play a little music himself, except he doesn't have any quarters and didn't think to ask the bartender when he'd ordered another couple of beers to bring back to his table. So he sits there and he listens and he thinks about Jamie, with his big brown eyes and crooked smile, talented hands and laughter like sunshine. He should have fucking known; you can't trust a musician. They pluck heartstrings like guitar strings and toss them out just as often. 

Nate's forehead makes a fleshy thunk as it hits the tabletop and he groans and wishes he hadn't driven here because he knows when he's done he'll be too far gone to drive.

There's another thunk, just across the table, startling enough that he jerks his head up – and up – finding first an innocent smile and then a pair of eyes so very blue it doesn't matter that the lighting in the bar isn't that great. They're arranged in a hopeful manner, and he blinks once, sits before Nate can ask him to and inquires, “Bad day?”

“You've no idea,” Nate says, as if his pain is so very new and unique. He knows it isn't, expects the stranger to roll his eyes and go traipsing off any minute now.

He doesn't though, and he chuckles at Nate instead of adopting a sympathetic face. “Me too,” he says, looking like he's had exactly the opposite. He takes what must be the last swig of from his bottle and sets it down hard on the table. Then he's thrusting his hand across the table, “Brad.”

Nate blinks, reaches tentatively out and gives the guy – Brad – an awkward handshake. “Uh, Nate,” he provides, not quite able to meet those eyes when that huge warm hand has closed around his. He's obviously strong, fingers callused and Nate hopes it's from some kind of hard work and not an instrument.

They spend an hour knocking back more beer and comparing eerily similar stories about two entirely different people with the same name. Brad's Jamie is a girl, who wouldn't know good music if she sucked Robert Plant's cock. Nate confesses uneasily that his Jamie liked covering Led Zeppelin the most and they have an awkward laugh followed by more beer. 

Brad drives Nate home, because the latter is sloshed and can't properly protest that Brad has only one helmet for the bike. He'll feel guilty in the morning about being pressed so close to a near stranger on a motorcycle, but he snuggles up against Brad's back anyway, fitting them together as he whispers completely innocent directions into the taller man's ear. He's disappointed when Brad only helps him up to the door of his apartment and doesn't ask to come in to take advantage of him, but he does tuck a piece of paper into Nate's pocket after hastily scribbling on it.

“Call me in the morning when you're sober and we'll go pick up your car.”

Nate leans heavily in the door frame as he watches Brad strap on his helmet and disappear around the corner on his way to the elevators.


End file.
